


Jingle Bell(y)

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Belly Kink, M/M, belly bloating, belly stuffing, overeating kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:41:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13160454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: “I’d like to watch you come apart at the sight of me stuffed with food,” Sherlock said. “A late Christmas gift to you.”John swallowed hard. “Alright then. We can--““I want you to do it, too.”“What?”“You, too. Bite for bite, until we finish all of it. Both of us.”“Both - ah, fuck. Okay. Both of us.”





	Jingle Bell(y)

**Author's Note:**

> I had a thought when I woke up this morning so then I wrote it. Here you go: John and Sherlock stuffing themselves on Christmas leftovers.

“What the hell are we meant to do with these?” Sherlock groused as he lugged the third cooler full of Christmas leftovers to their rental car. “Mummy made enough food for a dozen people, I’m not sure why she was so shocked she had leftovers after feeding just five of us.”

“We can freeze some,” John said, shutting the door after Sherlock had shoved the cooler inside. “And she’s right, we don’t cook often enough, so having actual home-cooked food is better than ordering in all the time.”

Sherlock sighed and got in on the driver’s side, snapping his buckle and waiting for John to get in before starting up the car. “We could eat it.”

“Of course we can eat it,” John said, rolling his eyes. “That’s why we’re taking it home. To eat it.”

“No. I mean, we can eat it. All of it. When we get home.” John froze in place. “I know you have that...thing you like, with food. And here we are, with three coolers full of objectively very good food, enough for five people, ready to be warmed up and eaten. We could do that.”

“Do you...want to do that?” John asked, carefully.

Sherlock thought for a moment. “I’d like to watch you come apart at the sight of me stuffed with food,” he said, genuine. “A late Christmas gift to you.”

John swallowed hard. “Alright then. We can--“

“I want you to do it, too.”

“What?”

“You, too. Bite for bite, until we finish all of it. Both of us.”

“Both - ah, fuck. Okay. Both of us.”

 

The roads were deserted on the drive home, so they made good time. Back to their flat and everything unloaded by half four, with John nearly vibrating out of his skin with impatience. Sherlock was a little nervous but excited to try - he had done this with John once before, and while it hadn’t been his favorite thing he knew John had appreciated it and enjoyed it _very_ thoroughly.

“I’m going to stick a few of these in the oven to re-heat,” John said, unloading a few pans from the coolers. “Are you sure you want to heat all of it up? I mean --“

Sherlock looked at all the containers and pans that his mother had packed up into the coolers she’d sent them home with. It was a lot of food, but they weren’t trying to eat a normal portion. He nodded and watched John’s whole body shiver. “We’ll finish it all.” He stepped closer to John and backed him slowly against the counter. “We’ll be so full. We’ve already had Christmas dinner today. Think of how full we’ll be.” He stroked down John’s side over his jumper. This time he could _feel_ John’s body quake.

John swallowed hard and arched into Sherlock’s hand. “Better put on some comfortable clothes, then. We’ve got...a lot of eating to do.”

 

It was the better part of an hour later when all the food was re-heated and on the table. A roast turkey, mashed potatoes with gravy, brussels sprouts, far too many Yorkshire puddings, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. There was also part of a Yule log in the refrigerator, should they be able to clear all of the main meal away first. That would be a tall order, Sherlock thought, looking at the spread of food in front of them.

He made a plate for himself and one for John, taking care that the portions were equal on both plates. He passed John’s plate across the table and sat down in his regular chair. He’d changed into pajama pants and a plain t-shirt, and John had done the same. Just changing into comfortable clothes to prepare for their meal was enough to have John on edge, and Sherlock watched as he took the first bite.

Sherlock wasn’t hungry, but the smell of the food was enough to have him digging into his plate anyway. He cleared away the turkey first, then dipped his Yorkshire pudding into the gravy and ate it too. John was taking a similar approach, though he’d eaten a little more than Sherlock had already. Sherlock smiled to himself and kept eating, polishing off the brussels sprouts in short order. By the time he got to the mashed potatoes, he was beginning to feel rather full - he had, to be fair, eaten an entire Christmas meal and seconds not six hours ago. He finished the mashed potatoes slowly and used another Yorkshire pudding to soak up the cranberry sauce. The stuffing was last, and it was the slowest he’d eaten yet. He took a drink of water and leaned back in his chair, feeling very full.

John cleared his plate at about the same time and looked up at Sherlock. His eyes drifted lower, to Sherlock’s middle, and Sherlock obligingly smoothed his hand over his rounded stomach. “Two full Christmas meals and some seconds in there,” he said. “I’m ready for more, though, if you are.” Had this been a regular meal, Sherlock would throw in the towel now and go take a nap, but they had a lot more food yet to eat.

John made their second round of plates, and Sherlock noticed that his stomach was rounded, too. He sipped at his water whilst John portioned out the food - they were close to finishing the vegetables and turkey, but had a lot of mashed potatoes, stuffing, Yorkshire puddings and cranberry sauce to go.

“I’m beginning to feel a bit like a stuffed turkey myself,” Sherlock said, starting slowly on the meat and potatoes. He noticed John shift a little in his chair, and saw his cheeks flush. “Oh, you like that. Do you want me to talk about it?” he asked, letting out an inelegant burp.

“If - if you want to. You don’t need to, but it’s...good. I’m feeling pretty well-stuffed too,” John said, leaning back to show Sherlock his stomach.

Sherlock felt an unexpected jolt of arousal at the sight of John leaning back and showing off his round middle. The way his t-shirt pulled tight over his abdomen, and the way John touched his stomach, was more of a turn-on than Sherlock thought it would be. He looked down and saw how his own shirt pulled tight, too, and how round his stomach had become. He prodded it gently and winced. John laughed and Sherlock looked up. “Come on, don’t stop now. You’re the one who said you wanted to eat all of this, and you’ve barely touched that plate.”

“Alright, alright,” Sherlock said, taking a bigger bite of his potatoes and ignoring how full his stomach was.

They both finished their second plates, but neither made a move to load up their plates again. Sherlock was touching his stomach gingerly, his sides aching with how full he’d gotten. John was in a similar state. Sherlock noticed that John’s glass of water was still nearly full, while his own was less than half empty. “If we’re keeping even on this, you need to drink more of your water,” he said, pointing at the glass.

“Slave driver,” John said, leaning forward with effort. He picked up the glass and drained it in one go, then raised one eyebrow. “If we’re keeping even on this, I think you need to finish off your water.”

“You’re awful.” Sherlock drank more slowly, but drank the rest of his glass, letting out a quiet ‘oof’ when he finished. He stood up, holding his stomach for a moment before picking up his glass and John’s and re-filling them from the sink. He couldn’t help but notice that he was moving differently, more carefully, and that his stomach pressed into the countertop when he stood as close as he usually did to the sink.

He set John’s re-filled glass down on the table but kept hold of his, standing right next to John. He made eye contact with his partner and then put his hand on his stomach, drawing John’s attention down. “Look how full we are,” he said, rubbing over the top of his stomach where he was the fullest. His t-shirt was tight now, stretching across his middle. He took a drink of his water, feeling the weight of it move into his stomach now that he was standing. He drank half the glass standing in front of John, who was watching Sherlock’s stomach with rapt attention. “I believe that means you need to drink,” Sherlock said, wiping his mouth.

John nodded and picked up his glass, standing up with a quiet grunt. “I believe it does,” he said, raising the glass to his lips and chugging. Sherlock watched with admiration as John downed the glass in one go, and then realized that meant he had to finish his glass, too. He started before John had a chance to tell him to drink, and by the time the glass was empty his stomach was smarting. He rubbed frantically to ease the ache.

John’s stomach was just as full as Sherlock’s was, which was a small comfort. John seemed to regret chugging the water as he was holding his stomach very carefully and watching Sherlock rub his. Sherlock took a shallow breath and moved until he had backed John into the countertop again, but this time with their full stomachs pressing together between them. He did his best to ignore the pain of pressing his middle into John’s, watching John’s eyes go wide.

Sherlock drew back after a long moment, holding his stomach in both hands, and then walked back over to his side of the table and sat down. He picked up the spoon in the mashed potatoes and served himself a large dollop. “Bite for bite,” he reminded. John sat back down.

Their third plates were less full than the first two. They managed to finish off the turkey and brussels sprouts and had to split the last Yorkshire pudding. They just had cranberry sauce, stuffing, and mashed potatoes and gravy left, but neither made a move to serve another plate after they’d cleared their third. John was breathing shallowly and rubbing his stomach, and Sherlock was just holding his like it might burst.

John spoke first. “We don’t actually have to finish all this,” he said, looking dully at what was left in the bowls.

Sherlock let out a burp in reply. “What’s the fun in that?” he asked, wincing as he leaned forward and took a sip from his glass of water. John echoed the movement without prompting. Sherlock drew the bowl of mashed potatoes to the middle of the table and took a spoonful straight from the dish. John caught on and did the same.

Bite by bite, they ate what was left of the mashed potatoes. John had to get up and re-fill both of their water glasses partway through, and getting up was a laborious effort. Sherlock noticed John cupping his middle as he walked to the sink, and was sure he would have had to do the same if he had gotten up.

“I think I can officially call this a belly now,” Sherlock said after the potatoes were gone. He set the dish aside with a clunk. His t-shirt was clinging to his sides and riding up over his middle. His skin and stomach felt so tight, like a balloon filled to bursting. Even his lungs ached from the effort of breathing. “God, John.”

“I’ve never been so full in my life,” John replied, burping and holding his belly carefully. His t-shirt was tight, too, the hem riding up just like Sherlock’s. “I’m not sure if I can eat anything else.”

“We’ve only got the stuffing and cranberry sauce left,” Sherlock said. “And there’s not much of either. I think we can do it. Think of how accomplished we’ll be.”

John groaned and rubbed his stomach. “Fine, but if I actually burst it’ll be your fault.”

They ate the stuffing the same way they’d done the potatoes - bite by bite, one after the other. John’s will was flagging, it was clear. Sherlock actually felt nauseous for a long moment and he had to stop and chew very, very slowly until the feeling passed. He looked down at his stomach and moaned. His poor, aching belly was rounder than it had ever been and was hot to the touch. “Just the cranberry sauce left,” he said, spreading his legs and leaning backward, his belly sticking up into the air.

“Not sure it’s a good idea, Sherlock,” John said, leaning back. Sherlock noticed that the waistband of his pajama pants were bowing under his rounded belly. He felt - his own were doing the same. They had gotten so full and round that their clothes were struggling to cover them.

“This is the easiest part to eat,” Sherlock replied, but even he wasn’t sure it was doable. “And - ough - there’s not much of it. We can finish this.” He shoved the dish of stuffing, now empty, to the side and dragged the cranberry sauce to the center. “Finish this and then lie down, because I feel like I’m going to rupture.”

“I’d be so fucking hard if I weren’t so fucking full,” John said, his cheeks flushed and eyes slightly glassy. “Remind me to take pictures so I can remember this and get off to it sometime when I’m not in awful pain because I’m so full.”

“Will do.” Sherlock took a spoonful of cranberry sauce and ate it. His stomach lurched, trying desperately to reject the food he was attempting to stuff into his already stuffed organ. He swallowed despite the pain and had another spoonful, followed by a sip of water. His throat felt raw and his stomach was crammed, uncomfortable and hot. They had only a few spoonfuls left, each, and when John’s last spoonful was swallowed he collapsed back in his chair, holding his stuffed belly in both hands. Sherlock, however, struggled to stand and lurched his way to the fridge.

“What are you doing?” John asked thickly, his thighs spread wide and belly sticking out proudly on his middle.

“Yule log,” Sherlock replied, grabbing the plate and putting it down between them. “We said we were going to eat it all. We won’t have eaten it all if we don’t eat this.”

John groaned and shook his head. “Sherlock, no,” he said. “Look at you. You’re fucking full to bursting, you think you can fit half of this cake in there? There’s no way. Look at us.” He clapped a hand to his stuffed middle.

“Bite for bite,” Sherlock said, sitting down heavily and cutting off a thick slice.

John, sensing a challenge, cut himself a slice and then picked up his glass of water, drinking half of it. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and did the same, then took a forkful of the cake and ate it. His stomach churned and ached and he had to force himself to swallow, but he did so, and took another bite.

John ate every bite that Sherlock did. It was a punishment, now - if Sherlock wanted to start this, damn it, he was going to finish every last bite of it. John lurched to his feet and filled their water glasses again, drinking part of his so Sherlock was forced to do the same. Sherlock took a big bite of the Yule log so John had to follow suit. Bite for bite. Swallow for swallow.

Sherlock could barely lean forward to cut the last of the Yule log in half to split with John. His belly was hot and hard and round, stuffed with serving after serving of Christmas dinner and dessert. John was likewise crammed with food. Neither of them could take more than small bites or sips of water at a time. Still, Sherlock picked up the last of the Yule log and put half on his plate, and half on John’s. “This is it. The last of it,” he said thickly, holding his aching belly with one hand. It rose and fell with each breath, a separate entity now.

He cut a small bite with his fork and forced himself to chew and swallow. He ate with one hand, leaving the other on his huge belly, rubbing the crest of it in a desperate attempt to ease the ache. It was fruitless, and every bite of food only made it worse. Still - John had a bite, so Sherlock had another. They were both breathing shallowly when the last bite of cake passed their lips, leaving just their half-full glasses of water to finish.

Sherlock picked his up and took a small sip. He winced. Every bite made the pain in his stomach more severe as he filled his stuffed stomach even more. He prodded it gently with two fingers as he took another sip. “It’s rock hard,” he said in awe.

“Same here,” John said, and Sherlock watched as John touched his belly. There was no give under his skin at all, and John groaned. His stomach arched away from his body, full and round. His shirt had ridden up until his belly was bare. Sherlock’s had done the same, leaving his belly uncovered.

He took another sip and made a noise of pain. Two more long swallows and the water was gone and Sherlock was breathless and absolutely stuffed with food. His belly crested forward, pale and rock solid under his palms. It jutted out obscenely, stretching his skin until he could see pale blue veins beneath his skin. He touched the top of it where it nearly came to a point, and hissed at the pain of even that light touch. He wasn’t sure he could stand up if he tried.

Across the table, John was in the same state. His stomach had become a tan ball, pushing his pajama pants low. The whole thing was round and packed full, and John was breathing as shallowly as Sherlock, leaned back in his chair. They both sat there, staring wordlessly, their breaths labored as they cradled their bursting stomachs in both hands.

There was a knock at the door and the sound of a tray being sat down. “Yoo-hoo,” Mrs. Hudson called. “Boys, I brought some leftovers from Christmas dinner. Help yourselves,” she said, and then retreated down the stairs.

“Bite for bite,” John and Sherlock said in unison.


End file.
